


to make things right

by forever_er



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Anxiety, Billy Hargrove Deserves Better, Billy Hargrove Needs a Hug, Billy Hargrove Redemption, Gay Billy Hargrove, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Nancy Wheeler Is a Good Friend, Post S3, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Tags May Change, Wingman Robin Buckley, but like in a separate universe, it's au but not, so kind of canon compliant but then NOT
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2020-07-20 03:55:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19985689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forever_er/pseuds/forever_er
Summary: Harrington breezes past him without so much as a glance his way. He feels the heat rise in him again, more insistent this time, and in a blink, he finds his fist has clenched itself resolutely in Harrington’s preppy jacket.Harrington looks at him with—Billy’s vision goes red—polite confusion. Like he doesn’t know him. Like he isn't afraid.In the back of his mind, Billy can feel his conscience trying to reason with him. Remember when you used to be happy? It asks him. Remember how you used to smile and people would smile back at you, and they liked you? It prompts, showing him those same faded memories that Max’s superhero friend had dredged up.Billy breathes, and Harrington continues to look concerned, and finally Billy releases him as he thinks, Fine. Thinks: This isn’t my Harrington anyway.-Or, the one where Billy Hargrove is snatched from the claws of death at the very last minute, tumbled into a world that isn't quite his own, and manages to learn a few things about himself along the way.





	1. you come and go

**Author's Note:**

> This... was not meant to happen. This work started as a middle of the night, insomnia-induced scramble to give Billy Hargrove the Steve-esque redemption arc he was denied, and turned into a 6k monster that will probably have more chapters.
> 
> I just want Billy to know what it would have been like if circumstances hadn't screwed him, okay?
> 
> Also, in full honesty, I remember absolutely none of seasons one or two of Stranger Things. Like. Nothing. So if things are off... I apologize.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Billy didn’t always hate himself. He doesn’t think he always did, anyway. The trouble is, he can’t remember a time when he didn’t anymore. He’s pretty sure there was a time—he has a vague memory of a happy childhood... maybe not a perfect childhood, or even a nice one, but he thinks he remembers it being good, sometimes—but it’s grown worn on the edges, like a photograph that’s been handled too much, or newsprint left out in the rain. He thinks he remembers his mom smiling. He thinks he remembers being the reason for it. But then again, maybe it had been a dream that he’d held on to. A child’s dream, a lifeline to survive what came after.

Billy wasn’t always mean. He used to pet dogs on the beach, and he’s pretty sure he always carried treats in the pockets of his swim shorts—just in case. His mom used to shake her head at him when the soggy remnants got stuck, but he remembers it warmly, like maybe she was more fond than angry. He wishes he appreciated it then. He thinks that maybe, just maybe, if things had been different, he would have had a chance. A chance to be happy like that boy from his dreamy faded memories. He thinks he would have smiled more. He thinks maybe others would have, too.

But thinking things doesn’t make them true. Billy Hargrove is in Hawkins, Indiana, miles from any beach. He is mean. He does hate himself. People don’t smile when they see him, or if they do, it’s not because of anything deeper than his looks. And he thinks maybe he’s about to die without changing any of that.

The thing is, the horrible thing he’d made—the kids, they were calling it, calling _him,_ a “Mind Flayer”—it’s staring him down. And he’s pretty sure that a few seconds ago he was going to help it kill that little girl, the strange one with the superpowers and the bloody nose. But he’d been used and hurt and lived in and he’d thought it was what he was supposed to have. That he deserved the horrors he’d seen, that he’d been forced—no, that he’d _helped_ —do, because he was, at his core, bad. His dad had been trying to beat it out of him for years. His mom had run away from him because of it, he’d thought. Because he was wrong. Because he wasn’t meant to exist this way, all skewed and hard. Because something was off in him, something that made other people care about people, the thing that made them human.

But that strange little girl, she’d just shown him that his dreams weren’t dreams. They had been real. And he _had_ been happy, in a real way, so long ago. And so had his mom. They had been happy together, and his dad... his dad had chased her away. Had chased the only good thing about Billy away. And maybe that’s when he’d learned to shove his humanity deep down, until he was pretty sure it wasn’t there anymore.

But it hadn’t happened because of Billy, it turned out. Looking back now, examining that flickering memory once more, maybe it wasn’t him that tore his family apart like he’d been brought up to believe. Maybe he wasn’t wrong. Maybe his mom had loved him. And maybe, even now, he still loved her, too.

That doesn’t change that he hates who he is. And it doesn’t even change who he is, really, because he’s pretty sure he’s too far down this path for that. But it does change what Billy knows he has to do.

He stares down the Mind Flayer. In its horrible amalgam face, he sees all of the people who have made him this way, and all of the people that he made _that_ way. And he chooses to stand between it and that strange little girl. Max’s friend, whose nose keeps bleeding and who cannot get to her feet and who can barely speak, but who just keeps fighting. Who tried to show him the good he’d once had, the innocent shine of it, even as his body had moved to squeeze the life from her. He braces himself. He feels a pain like none he’s ever felt before, like fifteen men kicking him cleanly in the ribs, through his heart—

He wakes up in his room. He looks down at his chest, gasping and clutching, but it’s smooth and intact. Not a blemish.

He blinks, looks again.

Not even a scar.

Before Billy can fully process this, before he can wrap his mind around what it means that he’s in his bedroom, that his chest is smooth and unbruised and untouched, his bedroom door bangs open.

At first, he can’t really make out what’s happening. It’s dark in his room, the only light spilling in from under his window, so when the door opens and light pours in, he’s blinded. Even sightless, he flinches back, instinctive, and feels his lips pull up until they’re set in a snarl; a cornered animal. His arms brace above his head, automatic. If he can keep his dad away from his face, no one will ask questions...

“Oh, Billy,” he hears, and the voice is soft and teasing where he expected hard and gruff. His panicked brain rearranges itself into the shape of a question mark, an exclamation point, though his body does not relax.

The shades on his window are up, and even more light pools in his bedroom before he finds it in himself to put his arms back down. His chest is still heaving, but he thinks maybe it has something new to heave about, something besides creatures from his wildest nightmares bearing down on him.

Standing in the early morning sunlight (and when had morning come?), lit golden from all sides like an angel come to earth, is a woman. She has long blonde hair, Billy’s brain provides, somewhere in the back that isn’t frozen. She has a kind face, it adds. She’s older than Billy remembers, smile lines around her eyes and mouth that weren’t there before, but that doesn’t seem to matter—he would know her anywhere. And that kid was right. She is pretty.

Standing in the middle of Billy’s room as if nothing is strange about it, as if she’s stood there a thousand times and will stand there a thousand more, is Billy’s mother. Billy’s heart thumps uncomfortably in his chest. Fight or flight has chosen fight—of course it has—but there’s nothing _to_ fight. Billy balls his hands hard into fists, finds that his lungs seem to have gotten smaller in the last two minutes, or else his mother breathes way more than her fair share of air.

She looks at him sternly, like he’s done something wrong, but there’s a warmth there, too. Billy isn’t sure what to do with it. He wonders vaguely if the Mind Flayer killed him, if this is what comes after. If his mother is welcoming him into The Next Life.

“Mom?” he asks, and at first he doesn’t recognize his voice. It’s come out quaking, gentle. Billy Hargrove is neither of those things.

“Billy, it’s almost eight o’clock,” his mom says, her hands coming to sit firmly at her hips. “If you don’t get a move on, both you and Max will be late.”

Billy opens his mouth to respond, questions crowding his throat all begging to be asked—what is his mom doing here in his bedroom but also here, in Indiana, how does she know Max, why does Billy still need to take Max to school, what happened to it being summer, didn’t he graduate, how did he get back home—but before he can ask any of them, his mom starts to tap her foot, and then she gets up next to him, making a shooing motion.

“Get up, get up, lazybones!” she sings, and Billy follows the direction blindly as his mother sweeps back out of his room.

“The keys are on the counter. I left toast in the kitchen for you—I have to get to work, _please_ try to make it to school on time, I don’t want to have to talk you out of another tardy,” she says, and then she’s gone. He hears the door bang open downstairs, and is surprised to hear something else, too.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Susan, you know how he is.” It sinks in slowly, what those words might mean, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on them. Maybe the Mind Flayer was all a dream, maybe he _is_ dead, or maybe Billy is finally losing his mind, but in any case, Max still _somehow_ needs him to take her to school.

He quickly pulls on clothes, the first he finds on his floor—fuck looking good today—and descends the stairs, two at a time. He grabs his keys off of the counter, goes to head out of the kitchen. Remembers the toast and doubles back, his stomach rumbling loudly. Except the toast isn’t on the counter, where it was promised.

 _Whatever_ , Billy thinks, even as his stomach protests, and heads to the front door. He finds Max there, her skateboard in one hand, Billy’s toast in the other.

Rage boils in his chest. It happens fast—it always does. One minute he’s fine, and the next—boom. Like a bottle rocket. It’s hot and it’s red and it crackles through him like it’s a living thing and if he’s honest, he’s kind of glad that something finally makes sense about the situation he’s awoken to. He finds his anger and holds onto it; it anchors him. Before he can think it through, he’s glaring at Max, ready to spit vitriol at her, to make her skate to school for stealing his stuff.

But Max just gives him a look of confusion, doesn’t seem afraid of the anger, just... startled by it. One eyebrow raised, she hands him the toast and opens the door, heading for his car.

“I didn’t want you to forget it again,” she says over her shoulder. “You don’t eat enough.”

Billy feels the rage drain from him immediately, replaced again by confusion. _Is_ he dead? Can dead people feel rage and hunger? And why is Max being nice to him? It’s not like he deserves it.

His mind still spinning, Billy follows Max outside. To give himself something else to focus on, he shoves the toast in his mouth—it tastes like regular toast, nothing special—and nearly chokes on it. 

“What the fuck happened to my car?” He splutters, aghast, once he’s forced the toast down. In front of him is not his Camaro, but some horrible, wrong thing. 

Max gives him an unimpressed look as she pauses, one leg in the passenger seat of the car that is _definitely_ not his.

“You ran into a pole, remember?” She says, punctuating her words with an eye roll. She climbs into the car, then, and gazes at him expectantly through the window.

With mounting horror, Billy lets his eyes travel over the vehicle that is not his. It’s beat up. The paint is scuffed and scratched, and there’s a pretty decent dent on the bumper, among other, less serious dents. The car, Billy concludes, has seen better days. Shaking his head, he opens the driver’s side door and gets in.

“You’re the one who dented your mom’s bumper, Billy, I was there. You can stop pretending to be shocked now.”

There are several problems Billy identifies in these statements. The first, which Billy’s pride smarts at, is that Billy does not crash cars. He drives fast, he drives reckless, but he does not crash. Not even when he’s drunk, and certainly not now, with this hunk of junk. The fact that his crashing a car is what caused him to end up here in the first place is... irrelevant. Supernatural circumstances. Not his fault. The second, and possibly more important problem —

“I’m driving my mom’s car,” he deadpans. He stares blankly out the window at the green and gray Hawkins landscape—suburbia as far as the eye can see. 

Perhaps he’s in Hell. Maybe the Mind Flayer killed him and he’s in Hell and his eternal task is going to be thinking his mom is alive before being forced to drive a shitty car that is not his, with his annoying step sister in the passenger seat looking at him like he’s losing his marbles for all of time.

Billy sighs. If this is his fate, it’s less than he deserves, honestly.

He’s tempted to sit in the driveway, just to see what happens, but he also knows that if this isn’t an eternal punishment type of deal and he doesn’t leave _right now_ , he’ll be in for it later. His dad’s car isn’t in the driveway, which means he’s probably at work (if Satan—whose existence, truthfully, Billy’s not sure he buys into—is responsible, then his dad’s definitely gonna show up at some point, no question). But still, mom or no mom, afterlife or not, Billy’s sure he’ll still be pounded if Max is late.

He peels out of the driveway, and the car feels wrong under him. He increases the speed, trying to leave all of the bullshit he’s been bombarded with all morning behind him, his foot pressing down, down, down on the pedal. Max doesn’t say anything, doesn’t give him any weird looks, so at least, whatever is happening to him, this aspect of his life is the same.

They both make it to school on time. Billy watches Max walk away with her friends before he leaves. He hadn’t liked them before, but now... well. They’re brave. He’ll give them that. They didn’t give two shits about trapping him and beating him up, and while he’s kind of angry about it, about how they almost killed him along with that thing that took root inside him and made him do so many horrible things—Billy bites back a shudder, forces himself out of the parking lot—he can respect it, too. It’s not like he doesn’t deserve it. It’s not like he doesn’t deserve ten times worse. He swallows down the hot shame that builds unbidden in his throat, and pushes the stupid kids from his mind.

Billy, inexplicably, listens to his mom and goes to school. He’s not sure why. He knows he has a piece of paper somewhere that says he should be done with this place forever, but. It seems like it didn’t join him over... wherever he is now. And it’s not like he knows what else to do with himself. So: school.

As soon as he walks through the front doors, though, Billy knows that there are more differences than his mom and his car between this life he’s stumbled into and the one he left last night.

The thing that tips him off: no one stares at him as he enters. No one cowers away from him in fear, or looks at him with poorly veiled jealousy. None of the girls are watching him with the hungry gleam in their eye that he’s gotten used to feeling on him as he walks through the halls. In fact, no one acknowledges him at all.

Billy feels his insides tighten, and something in him quietly seethes. He tries to push it down—it’s not like any of the Hawkins losers matter anyway—but he’s especially incensed when, while he’s at his locker, Harrington breezes past him without so much as a glance his way. He feels the heat rise in him again, more insistent this time, and in a blink, he finds his fist has clenched itself resolutely in Harrington’s preppy jacket.

Harrington looks at him with—Billy’s vision goes red—polite confusion. Like he doesn’t know him. Like he isn’t afraid.

In the back of his mind, Billy can feel his conscience trying to reason with him. _Remember when you used to be happy?_ It asks him. _Remember how you used to smile and people would smile back at you, and they liked you?_ It prompts, showing him those same faded memories that Max’s superhero friend had dredged up.

Billy breathes, and Harrington continues to look concerned, and finally Billy releases him as he thinks, _Fine._ Thinks: _This isn’t my Harrington anyway._

“Sorry,” he grunts, and it tastes like a foreign thing in his mouth. “You had— uh, lint,” he finishes lamely, stepping away.

Harrington blinks at him like he’s seeing him for the first time. Billy’s calm enough now to take in the scene around them. Beside Harrington, his weird friends are staring at Billy. The Wheeler girl looks like she’s ready to throttle him, and the Byers kid just looks bewildered. Other students, who had paused expectantly at Billy’s first move, have started to walk again, now that they know they aren’t going to miss a fight.

“Uh, thanks?” Harrington says, and he looks at Billy again, assessing. His hand travels absentmindedly through his hair, and Billy barely, _barely_ restrains himself from making fun of him. Because really. Harrington makes it too easy.

Instead, he turns away, shrugging, his fists now balled inside his locker. Part of him wants Harrington—or even Wheeler—to start a fight so he can let out some of these emotions that are hitting him like sledgehammers. He’s sick of feeling confused and scared and abnormal. Punching things usually takes care of that. 

But he stops himself. Until he figures out what’s going on, he’ll just let life take its course. He’s learned his lesson about charging blindly into the unknown. He pushes the nausea (too dark and too cold and his mind wasn’t his anymore and that’s what happens when you _don’t think_ Hargrove) down, and goes to shut his locker.

When he turns around, Harrington and his posse are gone. Instead, there’s now a girl perched at his shoulder. She’s leaning against his neighboring locker, all loose limbed and oozing ease, twirling a finger through short strands of straight hair. There’s something familiar about her, but Billy’s not sure why; he can’t place it, so he doesn’t try to.

“You’re gonna be late for your first class, y’know,” she says, a smirk dancing on her lips. Billy... does not know what to say. But a girl standing expectantly at his locker? This he understands. He focuses he gaze on her. He gives her the smile he knows drives girls crazy.

She smirks wider. “I see you finally spoke to Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington.” His smile slips. Why does she care if he talks to Harrington? In a millisecond, he decides it’s not his problem. He shakes it off.

Billy opens his mouth, maybe to say ask her what she thinks she’s doing, maybe to invite her to join him in a bathroom stall (because he’s definitely not taking her into _his mom’s car_ , no way), but that’s when he realizes the girl isn’t looking at him like he’s something to devour. There’s no heat in her gaze. It’s more like, she’s looking at him like he’s something either very cute or very dumb. Possibly both. Billy finds himself thinking about puppies on the beach.

“What the fuck—?” He begins, angry that he’s confused _again_ , angry that she’s looking at him like that when she should know better, but the girl cuts him off when she loops her arm through his, pulling him down the hall.

“Thou dost protest too much, dingus. But it’s okay. I get it.” She winks, nudging him in the ribs, “Anyway, in more important news, I saw Tammy Thompson today outside the band room, and she was wearing that red sweater, you know the one, and I said ‘Tammy I like your sweater’ and she actually looked at me and...” Billy’s mind feels like a record player caught in a groove. The girl next to him keeps talking, but his mind is taking in absolutely nothing. He feels like he should try to pull away, but the girl has a surprisingly strong grip, and also, it seems like she knows where he’s supposed to be going, which. He does not.

The girl drops him off at a classroom he’s sure he would not have otherwise found. She bids him adieu—literally salutes him and says _adieu_ —and Billy, thoroughly exhausted despite it not even being nine in the morning, slumps into a seat at the back of the classroom. He casts a glance at the board, then feels his stomach drop. Why is he sitting in an _Advanced Literature_ class? He’s becoming more and more sure that he’s dead and in hell.

The thing is, Billy likes to read. His mom had read to him all the time when he was little, it was something they shared outside of surfing that’d he kept as the years went on without her. Sometimes, they’d lay on the beach together, his head in her lap, and she’d card her fingers through his hair as she read him _Watership Down_ , and later, Vonnegut. But he’s never, ever told anyone about the worn books hidden under his bed at home, and he would absolutely never hand this bit of himself over for the stupid students of Hawkins to read into. He’s the King, he does not care for his subjects, and he reveals nothing to them—he’s untouchable. Untouchable people don’t have soft spots, and they definitely do not take _Advanced Literature_. Vulnerability only gives people ways to hurt you. Billy knows this lesson by heart.

But Billy stays through the class (and even grudgingly enjoys it), because it seems like whatever force has brought him here wants him to be there. And he is determined to stay on course, so that maybe, if he does, things will start to make sense sooner.

By the end of the day, though, Billy’s resolve about _staying on the path_ is starting to crumble. Every. Single. One. of his classes is advanced. That girl—Robin, he learns, when some band geek carrying a clarinet waves her down where she insists on sitting with Billy at lunch like it’s a normal thing—sticks to him like a parasite, and walks him to every class. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think they were going steady, except that it’s abundantly clear that Billy is not her type. And to top it all off, when Billy turns to head for the gym and basketball practice after the bell rings, there Robin is again, giving him the same look that Max had given him that morning. As if he’s a crazy person.

“What?” Billy says, exasperated. He clenches his fists and grinds his teeth to keep from shouting at Robin in the middle of the hallway.

“Uh, where are you going?” she asks, eyebrows raised. Billy notices an instrument case clasped in her hand. _So she’s a band geek, too_ , he thinks, and it makes sense. He probably should have seen that one coming.

“The gym.”

“Why?” Robin asks, her blue eyes widening to comical proportions.

“To… work out?” Billy says, and he hates that it’s a question.

Robin laughs suddenly, like she understands something. Billy can’t help the ugly scowl that crosses his features. People don’t laugh at him. They just don’t.

“Oh, I get it, Hargrove,” she says, and he tenses as she slaps at his arm, her eyes crinkled up with mirth. Right as he’s about to snap, Robin lets him go, wiping tears from her cheeks. “‘Work out’ he says… yeah, _okay_.” She snorts.

Billy looks at her blankly, but she seems satisfied that the reasoning she’s come up with as to why Billy would want to head to the basketball court is correct, so she doesn’t explain. Instead, she grabs his arm again, and leads him down the hallway. Billy doesn’t know why she keeps touching him if she’s not trying to get with him. She’s clearly not trying to hurt him, either, so he doesn’t see what third option there could be. Easier to coerce him, maybe?

Robin leads him down the hall, swinging her instrument case jovially. Billy looks at it, then begins to recognize where in the school they’re heading... and skids to a halt so fast that Robin nearly goes sprawling.

“Um, what the hell, dingus?”

But Billy has put two and two together, and there is _no way in hell_ (especially not in Hell, if that’s where he is) that he is going to enter the _band room_ where people can _see him_.

“I think I’m feeling under the weather,” Billy says, but the words come out harsher than he intended, more like he’s spitting them at Robin. He feels his lips curl up in that familiar snarl, one he’s given plenty of times to plenty of people. He doesn’t normally use it on girls—outside of Max, that is—so it feels kind of new.

But rather than backing up in fear like he’s used to people doing, Robin just rolls her eyes and walks into the room without him. A minute later, a short man with a long stick-looking thing in his hand is ushering Billy in after her, mumbling about how Billy needs to “stop running late”, about how they need to run through all of their songs before the following week and nail them down or “so help me I will play the saxophone outside each and every one of your windows at three in the morning”, and Billy is so startled by the frenzied look in the small man’s eyes that he walks into the room without argument.

Since Billy does not have an instrument case with him, he’s not really sure what he’s supposed to do. Luckily (or maybe unluckily), the mumbling stick-wielding man shoos him in the direction of some drums and some other weird-looking things Billy’s not sure what to make of in the back of the band room. So. He guesses he’s also not getting out of this by pretending he forgot his instrument at home.

As he wends his way between chairs and stands to get to the back, two other guys are waving at him excitedly, like he’s their friend, which. Billy resents that. He doesn’t have friends. Friends just leave. He’d made that mistake in California and there’s no way he’s slumming through a repeat performance in Hawkins. He’s dumb, but he isn’t stupid.

He pointedly ignores them, even as they look at him with concern, even as they hand him some weird-looking drumsticks that have huge white marshmallow-looking things at one end, and exchange glances that scream something like: _oh no what has happened to our friend?_ Billy barely restrains himself from using the white-capped end of the stick to pummel both of them. Instead, he merely grips the sticks tighter, his knuckles going white.

At first, Billy thinks that it’ll be easy to play the drums—” _percussion_ ” he learns, as the frenzied man yells it in a disdainful, somehow even more frenzied voice over the din of music every time Billy does something wrong—because it’s like, all he has to do is hit something repeatedly. He has loads of practice doing that. Except it turns out that hitting things (people), and hitting things (instruments) are much different, in that Billy actually has to pay attention to the timing of his hits, has to try to read some nonsense off of a page instead of reading the look in someone’s eyes to see if they’ll swing back. Before the first song is even done, Billy is sure he’s going to break the sticks in half over the drum, and then upend the drum over the loser in front of him blowing into the big gold thing.

He’s ready to do it, frustration hitting the boiling point of rage, but before he can begin wreaking the havoc he craves, the door to the band room opens with a creak of protesting hinges. The Wheeler chick ducks in, and the guy up front stops waving his stick around as everyone stops playing and starts chatting amongst themselves.

“What can I do for you, Miss Wheeler?” the stick-man asks.

Wheeler’s eyes are roving over the class, but stop as she catches sight of Billy. She looks… weirdly relieved to see him. Once again: Billy is confused. Hadn’t she been giving him the death-glare just this morning?

“I was wondering if I could borrow Billy, sir?” she asks, and Billy rolls his eyes as hers go all big and blue and pleading. “I hate to interrupt, it’s just, you know he’s a tutor, and we’re short today.”

Billy snorts loudly and heads turn his way, but he doesn’t really care because _seriously_? This has to be a joke. What moron would make hardass, dumbass Billy Hargrove a tutor?

Apparently a moron in this universe (Hell? Billy’s still not convinced this isn’t Hell), because the next thing Billy knows, he’s in the hall again and following dumbly after Wheeler, Robin flipping him off warmly as he makes his exit.

“Uh?” He asks, intelligently, as they leave the band room behind, and Wheeler looks at him with a smile.

“I’m sorry to interrupt band,” she says, and she does seem earnestly sorry, which makes Billy want to roll his eyes again. Can’t she go be earnest where it won’t make Billy want to vomit? “It’s just, Kevin didn’t show today, and he’s the only one that’s willing to work with Steve outside of me, and my schedule doesn’t match with his because I’m already tutoring four people.”

Billy feels his brain short circuit for a moment. Surely, _surely_ the Steve she is referring to isn’t Harrington. What a goddamn cruel joke that would be. There’s no way that both he and Harrington would make it out of the tutoring session unscathed, and also—what could Billy possibly tutor him in? How to take a punch?

“Oh, that reminds me!” Wheeler says, after a few moments of blessed silence. She turns to look at him again, pausing. “What was that about this morning, at your locker? I didn’t think you and Steve really knew each other.” With a laugh, she adds, “If I didn’t know you better, for a second I almost thought you were gonna hit him.”

Billy finds himself grinding his teeth at the implication that Wheeler thinks she knows him. Wheeler doesn’t know shit about him, and yeah, he _was_ going to hit Harrington. But how is he going to explain that? _Yeah, Wheeler, I was raring for a fight because I’ve somehow woken up in a reality where I have a mom and my self-declared nemesis doesn’t know me, and all of this_ after _I may or may not have gotten stabbed through the chest by a monster of my own creation?_

Billy doesn’t think that answer will fly, and he especially doesn’t think it will end with him anywhere but a padded cell in some loony bin, so instead, through his gritted teeth, he manages, “I thought… he had… a spider on his jacket. But it turned out to be lint.”

Wheeler seems satisfied with this answer, because she shrugs simply and starts walking again. Almost no time at all passes before she’s leading them into a brightly lit room covered in motivational posters, where Hawkins students are sprawled together in pairs on the ground, on desks, and some, on the windowsill.

“Okay,” Wheeler says, “Steve’s over in the solo room because it’s his first time here and he’s embarrassed,” she smiles a smile that Billy doesn’t really understand—something warm and fond but not _wanting_ —and gestures to what looks like a closet. “He wants help with his English paper that’s due next week. Thanks again for coming on your band day!”

With a startling squeeze of Billy’s arm, she flits away, leaving Billy standing in the doorway. 

Billy is not ecstatic about the situation he’s in. He might hate this situation worse than the one he was just in, because at least in the band room, destruction was sort of encouraged. _Hell_ , he thinks to himself with more certainty as he makes his way to the closet door.

He pauses before he enters, and thinks about all the things he could be doing besides this. He could leave and go for a drive. He could find the nearest liquor store and drown himself in it. He could go pick a fight with someone, do something impulsive (but his stomach tightens, queasy, with that thought—flashes of blood and bone and darkness, flashes of bruised skin and screaming car tires, of his body moving without his consent hitting him like waves until he finds himself with his forehead pressed into the door in front of him). His breath wavering stupidly, Billy thinks of his plan to stay on the path, to make it out of this upside-down day, and thrusts the door open.

The door hits the wall with a loud _bang_ , and Billy feels a sick kind of pleasure when Harrington jumps. Billy strolls in, then, determined to act casual. His hands are deep in his pockets, his posture is relaxed, catlike—the stance he favors. Harrington, on the other hand, is hunched over a desk in the small room, which apparently is not a closet after all, but a very miniature version of the room Billy had just come from. Harrington’s hair is mussed, like he’s run his hands through it several thousand times, the way Billy had seen it get on the basketball court when they were down and Harrington was stuck on the bench. Billy sits down in the seat next to him, which also happens to be the only other seat in the room.

Harrington deflates even more once Billy is beside him. Billy doesn’t think he’s ever seen Harrington like this, all subdued. He’s… not sure what to do with it.

Luckily, Harrington makes the first move. He sits up, then with a sigh loud enough to match Max’s when she’s late for school, he pushes a wrinkled piece of notebook paper towards Billy.

“I know it’s only, like, two weeks into the term,” Harrington says, refusing to meet Billy’s eyes, “But my English teacher looked at my first paper and said I would fail and… and not graduate if I didn’t get help. And Nancy’s busy, so…” He trails off, still not looking at Billy, and Billy feels that red heat building again. As much as he wants to make fun of Harrington, he also wants him to _look at him_ so that they can get past this sorry sap bullshit. He can’t fight someone who looks so defeated. His hands ball into fists in his pockets.

Harrington sighs again, then finally meets Billy’s eyes, “Nancy says you’re the best tutor outside of her, so can you please help me?”

Billy leans back in his chair, and he can feel himself leering, but he doesn’t try to stop it. “Best outside of Wheeler, huh?” he asks, and he’s darkly satisfied when Harrington gives him a confused scowl.

He pulls Harrington’s essay towards him—the sooner he reads it the sooner he can leave, probably, and then maybe he’ll wake up where things make sense—and starts to read it. He’s two sentences in when he blurts, “Really, Harrington? Are you that dumb?”

It slips out. Billy—for the first time ever with Harrington—isn’t trying to be snide, or to put Harrington down (even if it is entertaining). But as soon as he says it, Harrington’s head hangs lower, and Billy can’t help but think of him in other settings. Can’t help but see his steely-eyed stare as he faced down monsters, or the protective rage that had him fighting to save those kids, Max’s friends, even though he didn’t need to. Billy has seen Harrington mad, has seen him livid. He’s seen him frustrated and beat down and unconscious, but never desolate, like this. He thinks about the strange bravery hiding in Harrington that’s made him face Billy down, both as himself and as a monster, despite the odds being nearly zero that he’ll win.

His bravery is stupid, is what it is. And Billy suddenly regrets underestimating it. Regrets all the times when he—Billy can taste bile in his throat, feels it constrict, feels his vision shrink as blackness crowds in—when he tried to kill him. And he did try to kill him, and he’s almost succeeded _more than once_. In one moment of horrifying clarity, Billy grasps what he’s done to so many innocent people. He’s disgusted with himself, more so than he has ever been before. It wells up in him until he feels like he might drown in it, wishes he would. Wishes that Harrington would launch himself across the table and bring him the pain he knows he deserves.

Harrington is still staring at his toes, though. So Billy pulls himself together.

“I’m sorry,” he says, meaning it more than he’s meant anything. “I’m sorry,” he says again, and he isn’t just apologizing for calling Harrington an idiot. “You aren’t dumb.”

Harrington looks up at him then, dubious. He goes to pull his essay back to himself, “Yeah, I am—” he begins, but Billy cuts him off, grabs Harrington’s wrist to keep him from moving the essay away.

“You aren’t,” he says firmly. “There’s a lot to work with here.” He wishes he could say the same for himself.

As Billy goes back to reading Harrington’s essay, he doesn’t miss the way his eyes have lit up. There’s something hopeful in them, now. His posture’s straighter, too. And Billy… though his chest is crawling with nausea and self-loathing, he feels like maybe, just maybe, Harrington’s hope might be contagious.


	2. i'm odds and ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy tries to settle into his new normal. Whatever that means.
> 
> warnings for: Max and her minions, Steve Harrington being himself, Billy Hargrove's incredible capacity for angst, a breakdown in the woods, Robin Buckley's attitude, mentions of basketball

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. I am absolutely gobsmacked by the love this little story has received so far. Thank you so, so much to everyone who has read it, left kudos, and commented. I am so incredibly touched by all of the kind things you have said. Thank you.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this new installment.

Billy is standing in the middle of the road that leads out of town, his arms hanging by his side, his hands fisted. The “Now Leaving Hawkins!” sign is to his right, weak with rot. He’s the only one here, not another living thing in sight, let alone a car. The cool September breeze wraps around him, and Billy closes his eyes, lets everything wash over him as he breathes it in.

The past few hours have been an exercise in the surreal. The whole day, really, but the last few hours especially.

After their stumbling start, Harrington and Billy had… well, they hadn’t gotten along, exactly. But they hadn’t _not_ gotten along, either. The whole thing felt tentative. Harrington was too busy hating himself to say anything annoying to Billy, and Billy was too busy hating himself to say anything provocative to Harrington. They made it out of the room an hour after Billy entered without getting into a fight, and—even stranger—with a tentative smile fighting its way onto Harrington’s face, because he and Billy had made decent progress on his essay.

Billy walked Harrington through the knot of other students packing up, stopped at the door with him. He didn’t know why, because he’d never been the type to _see someone out_ before. It just felt like he was supposed to. Felt… professional.

Harrington had one foot in the hallway before he turned back to Billy, wearing a smile that Billy wanted to classify as _shy_ but was sure he was reading wrong.

“Thanks, Billy,” he said, and Billy had startled at that. Sure, Robin called him Billy, and Max, too, but there was something especially strange about hearing his first name fall from Harrington’s mouth, all familiar and friendly. Billy felt a scowl settle over his features, but he managed a tight nod.

“Don’t go getting too cocky, Harrington. It still needs work.” But Harrington just laughed.

Somewhere in the back of the room, Wheeler shouted, “He’s also free on Thursdays, Steve, if you felt like today’s session went well!”

And Harrington’s smile morphed into a grin as he walked out the door, throwing a, “See you Thursday, then,” over his shoulder.

After, Billy picked Max up, except it wasn’t just Max. Into his mom’s car piled Max, the kid without the front teeth, and the one he was pretty sure Max was “dating”, or whatever that meant for eighth graders. Billy felt that same guilt and self-loathing rise in his throat. He swallowed it down.

“Uh—?” he said, intelligently, but Max seemed to take this not as: _Why the fuck are there children in my backseat?_ But, instead, as: _Where would you like me, your chauffeur and humble servant, to drive you on this beautiful day?_

“Can you take us to the arcade?” she asked, all smiles. In his rearview mirror, Billy could see her two friends nodding along. They didn’t seem terrified for their lives, which. Billy wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Addled, maybe. Off kilter.

He didn’t say anything and Max didn’t wheedle. What she did say was, “How was your day?” as he pulled out of the parking lot.

“Uh,” Billy said again, because Max had never once asked him that. Well, maybe once, at the beginning, but she’d learned not to bother. “It was… it was good.” And he found that he kind of meant it, despite everything. It had been good. Maybe not great. But good.

Max nodded, and Billy found himself blurting, “What about you? What did you do today?”

Max and the two boys in the back launched into it right away, talking over one another, and occasionally exchanging slaps, which Billy was glad for—it masked how awkward he felt about this conversation. He couldn’t make heads or tails of what they were saying—something about science and something else about… mages? Campaigns?—but he found that nodding every time Max looked at him was response enough.

When he pulled up to the arcade, half-surprised at himself for acquiescing, all of the kids beamed at him. The boys raced inside immediately. Max thanked him, and then hugged him before she got out of the car.

Max… hugged him?

It was quick, maybe lasted a second or two. But Billy felt his body lock up as he cringed ever so slightly towards the driver’s side door—adrenaline raced unbidden through him, his heart pounded, his breath heaved out, wheezy. He hadn’t been expecting the contact. His fingers were corpse-white on the wheel.

Max didn’t seem to notice, because she filched several quarters from the cup holder and bounded out the door after her friends without a backwards glance.

But Billy sat, trying to calm himself down, for several minutes before he could breathe again.

So. He’s at the Hawkins sign, now. He’s alone for the first time all day, standing like a statue right on top of the yellow line in the middle of the road.

He feels like he’s losing his mind.

Everyone looks the same. Everyone speaks the same. Everyone’s acting _almost_ the same. But it’s the “almost” that’s driving Billy mad. He thinks he knows what’s wrong, too. People are being too nice to him, but it isn’t the type of nice he’s used to. No one is simpering at him, batting eyelashes, telling him he’s strong and handsome. No one’s patting him on the back for being victorious over someone else (for setting a keg stand record, for punching some nobody unconscious to teach them a lesson, for winning a basketball game). They’re all acting like they aren’t trying to _get something_ from him.

What are they trying to get from that?

Robin’s not going to fuck him with the way she’s acting, doesn’t seem like she wants to. But she’s not going to become popular overnight by hanging out with him, either, if he’s a _band nerd_ and a _tutor_ on top of that. And what was that about with Harrington? He’s all quiet, radiating ennui and shame? That’s… that’s not fucking Harrington, is what that is. Harrington only ever looks at him with hatred, with dissatisfaction. Like seeing Billy’s face leaves a bad taste in his mouth. And here he is, willingly going to Billy for help, acting like he doesn’t know him? Billy wants to know what the fuck is going on.

The thing is, Billy’s developing a theory. He’s pretty sure that he isn’t in Hell. He’s not sure if he’s dead or not, but he’s fairly confident spending time in Hell wouldn’t include him having a pleasant morning and a somewhat prickly afternoon. He thinks he knows exactly what—or, more accurately, who—his Hell would look like, and while Billy still thinks he’s gonna show up, he hasn’t yet, and that says everything Billy needs to know.

So, not Hell. But Billy’s read a lot of books. In particular, he’s thinking about the ones where the protagonist somehow manages to get caught in an alternate universe. Though he’d never let himself believe he’s a protagonist, he thinks that’s what this is: a universe like his own, but turned sideways. The people are mostly the same (he thinks he’s seen Robin _somewhere_ in the other Hawkins, so he’s pretty sure she’s not unique to this Hawkins), the places are the same, but things are off. He still isn’t sure just how off.

Still, having a theory about something and living through something are two different monsters. And though Billy is (kind of) sure, now, that he’s not going completely off the rails, part of him thinks that he definitely is, and that the thing—the Mind Flayer—drove him over the edge of sanity and this is where his psyche is free-falling now. Either way, it isn’t easy.

He’s been so good today, too. Better behaved towards everyone than he can ever remember being. But he still feels like something is eating at him from the inside, suffocating him. Not like the Mind Flayer. But not unlike it, either. His stomach is clenched as tight as his fists, and he’s angry and he’s frustrated and he feels like he’s tiptoeing towards a breakdown, the third this week. He’s been trying to keep it at bay, but he’s beginning to think it’s futile. He thinks he may crawl out of his skin if he tries to keep it together for one second longer.

He lets himself go.

If someone were watching him, they’d probably call the cops. Or maybe animal control. But that’s why Billy came out here. No one can interrupt him here, on the edge of the world. No one can stop him from screaming at the top of his lungs, until his throat is so raw he thinks it might be bleeding. No one can stop him when, after he’s screamed himself hoarse, he finds himself in the trees on the edge of the road, his fists flying at the bark until he knows they’re bleeding. No one can stop him when, after his knuckles have split, he slides down the tree trunk, tears streaming down his face and broken sobs pulling themselves painfully from the wreckage of his throat.

No one can stop him when he falls all the way to the ground, curls up in a ball, and tries in vain to hold himself together.

After, he comes back to himself in stages. The sensation of cool grass on his face, the way his hands are tingling underneath him—those come first. Then, he becomes aware of the angry pressure in his chest, the thing that vacillates wildly between self-loathing and anger at the rest of the world—he thinks it’s smaller now, feels like it’s taking up less space in him than before. Thinks maybe he feels a little better, all things considered. 

That’s when he notices the fiery sting of his throat protesting breath, the insistent achy pulse of his bloody fingers. The pain brings him crashing back to reality.

He surges upright and coughs, then winces, because coughing feels like being stabbed. He looks around, panicked, but relief floods him as his settings filter in and he remembers where he is, realizes that the sun is still up, and even better, that it has only very slightly changed position. He might night even be late to grab Max from the arcade. He hurdles upright, ignoring his complaining body, and drags himself into the car.

He is late to the arcade, the clock in his mom’s car—and he still can’t really wrap his head around his _mom_ , being _here,_ lending him a car—reading 5:45. As he approaches, Billy can see that Max is outside, tapping her foot impatiently on her skateboard, her friends nowhere in sight.

As soon as Billy pulls up, she slings herself into the passenger seat.

“You’re late,” she says, accusatory, her arms crossed for emphasis.

“Where-?” Billy rasps, but Max cuts him off with a raised eyebrow, casting a glance pointedly at his throat, his fingers.

“Steve took Dustin and Lucas home,” she says, and he’s glad that she didn’t ask why he was late, doesn’t know what he’d say, or even if he’d explode on her. He still feels raw and on edge. “He could’ve taken me home, too, if I knew you were gonna be fifteen minutes late.” She stares out the window, oozing affront, but as Billy pulls out of the parking lot, she turns back to him with a wicked gleam in her eyes. “But, because you were late, I beat Dustin’s high score on Dig Dug again, so we’ll call it even.”

He doesn’t say anything, isn’t really sure what the proper response is—congrats?—but he nudges Max’s shoulder and she smiles at him, so he thinks that maybe it’s enough. Billy spares a thought to wonder vaguely which one Dustin is, but mostly he’s still too busy thinking about how weird it is that Max is talking to him like he’s… well, like he’s her friend. He feels the pressure in his chest, the angry self-loathing, dissipate even more.

Billy pulls into the driveway a few minutes later. Max leaps out of the car, complaining about how hungry she is, but Billy doesn’t follow her immediately. Instead, he lingers, his eyes roving around the house for signs of his dad. Once again, his car isn’t there. Billy feels the first light flutter of hope beat staccato against his ribcage, but forcibly quashes it. Better he do it now, before it grows. It always hurts more to kill hope when it’s grown.

He steps out of the car and heads up the drive, hands deep in his pockets. He finds Max just inside the front door, untying her shoes and talking animatedly to her mom. So Billy hadn’t misheard this morning—his mom _had_ driven to work with Susan. And Susan’s still here, looking comfortable where she leans against the wall nodding along to Max’s rambling. She nods a hello to Billy, but before Billy can even begin to try to understand how his two lives have collided, let alone why, he hears his mom’s voice carrying from the direction of the kitchen.

“Billy? Is that you, baby?” she calls, and Billy feels his face flush with heat. Nobody’s called him a _pet name_ in well over ten years. Nobody’s had the nerve.

“Yeah, Ma, it’s me,” he calls back, hoarse, uncertainty coloring his voice. He brushes past Susan, stiffening as she squeezes his shoulder, and heads towards his mom’s voice. His heart is racing.

Billy walks into the kitchen, and stops dead. She’s still here. Bathed in the soft light of the kitchen, wearing an apron over her dress and her hair in a high ponytail, her brow furrowed in concentration, is his mom. He’d half thought he’d made her up this morning. He’d half thought she’d be gone by tonight. He hears his breath leave him in a _whoosh_ , sits down hard right there on the linoleum as his knees forget how to hold his weight.

His mom turns around, then stops what she’s doing and races over. She crouches down next to him, placing a gentle hand to his forehead. Billy remembers that he’s supposed to breathe, realizes he hasn’t been doing that. His head feels light and his brain feels slow, like at the beginning of a house party, the sweet spot right after the first keg stand. He doesn’t much like the feeling now, he finds.

“Are you okay, baby?” his mom asks, her face all concern, her eyes searching his for answers.

“I’m fine,” Billy rasps after a moment. He clears his throat, tries again. “I’m fine,” he says, voice stronger now, not as painful. He leans away from his mom’s hand, doesn’t take the one she offers to help him up. “I’m fine,” he says again, now that the room has stopped spinning and his feet are under him.

His mom hauls herself to her feet as well, gives him a skeptical look that reaches to his busted knuckles. “Okay then, Mr. Fine. But you don’t look it. Actually, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

 _I have_ , Billy thinks as she turns back to food on the counter, something hard settling in his stomach, edging away the awe.

Dinner that night is a strange affair. Well, strange in how... normal it is. Billy feels like he’s in a commercial about a happy family, feels staged—like no one’s life could really be like this. His mom sits at the head of the table, Billy across from her at the other end. Max is on his right, Susan on his left. They’d stayed for dinner, but there hadn’t been a fuss, and it didn’t feel awkward, like parties with more than one family often do. Billy’s pretty sure, actually, that this is the way dinner usually goes here. In fact, when he’d set the table (at his mom’s request—“Billy, can you make yourself useful instead of just standing there like a fool, please?”), he’d set out five spaces. Then Max had swept in, seen the fifth space, and asked “Is Robin coming over?”

He’d cleared the place setting without another word, beating back that light-winged hope in his chest again, while Max rolled her eyes before helping him lay out napkins.

He’s brought back to the conversation at the table with a start, as Susan asks him something. He turns to look at her, feeling awkward and wrong-footed because he and Susan _don’t talk_ , let alone play nice at the dinner table.

“Sorry—what?”

Susan smiles warmly at him, then casts a knowing glance at his mom, “Someone’s been looking a little out of it tonight,” she says, and Billy’s mom shakes her head. “I asked you how your day was.”

He shrugs noncommittally. “Fine,” he says, and he sees his mom mouth an exaggerated “ _fine_ ” to Max, which makes her laugh, and makes Billy feel like there’s something very heavy in his lungs.

“You had band practice today, right?” Susan asks, ignoring them.

Billy nods. “Yeah, but then Wheeler— er, Nancy, came and got me because they needed an extra tutor.”

“Well, that was very nice of you,” Susan says, “But what happened after that?” She looks pointedly at his knuckles. Billy tries to push down the rage that hits him like a shot at those words. Who does she think she is, interrogating him about his life? That’s none of her goddamn business.

His mom stops making faces at Max and goes suddenly serious, “Yes, William,” she says, “Why are your knuckles bloody?”

Billy’s just shoved food into his mouth in an attempt to evade further questioning—the food is so good he thinks he might cry again, he’d forgotten what his mom’s cooking tasted like, and he feels like he’s reeling through years of memories right there at the table—but luckily he’s saved from answering by the phone ringing in the living room.

“I’ll get it!” Max yells, and she leaps up before anyone can protest. As Billy struggles to chew his portion under intense scrutiny, he hears Max ask excitedly, “Lucas?” and then, with a little less enthusiasm but still a surprising amount, “Oh! Hi Robin! Yeah, I’ll get him.”

She comes back in, and looks at Billy, “It’s for you,” she says, totally misreading the mood of the room and waggling her eyebrows. Still, he feels some of his anger dissolve.

Billy has no idea why Robin would be calling him—maybe she does want to hook up? He looks at his mom—a silent question he’s not used to asking.

She sighs. “Five minutes. But we _will_ continue this conversation, young man.” She points a finger a him, threatening, and Billy would be lying if he said it didn’t make him nervous. It’s not a fist aimed at him, but the way his stomach drops? Same result. His pulse rabbiting, he walks into the living room.

“Hello?” he asks, still battling the maelstrom of emotions pulsing through his head, his body stiff with the tension of it.

“Hey dingus,” Robin says, her smoky voice strangely tinny through the phone, and Billy inexplicably finds himself relaxing, “I’m kind of pissed you ditched me, but also not, because now you can give me more insight into the world of the beautiful and dumb. Who’d they have you tutor today? Was it one of the cheerleaders? A football player?”

“Are we gossiping like teenage girls?” Billy asks, and he can’t quite hide the amusement in his voice behind the anger he’s trying to throw in front of it. Instead of steely, his question comes out more exasperated.

“In case it’s escaped your notice, I am a teenage girl, dingus.”

“You know what? I think it did escape my notice. Since when?”

“Ha ha ha,” Robin mutters, “But seriously. Why’d they need you today? I thought you only tutored on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

Billy has no idea when he tutors, but he remembers Wheeler saying something about Thursdays, so he guesses Robin’s probably right. “Apparently no one would tutor Harrington,” he says, then coughs, because his throat still stings from yelling even now.

“You’re _kidding_ ,” Robin’s voice has a certain _quality_ when she says it, but Billy can’t place it. From the kitchen he hears his mom yell, “Wrap it up!”

“No, not kidding.” Billy stops, has a thought, “Why? You wanna do him?” She’d mentioned Harrington that morning, too. Maybe that’s what she wants from him—maybe she wants Billy to introduce her to Harrington. Over his dead body, he will. And since he’s maybe already dead in one universe, over his mother’s dead body, too.

There is an elongated pause in which Billy thinks he has miscalculated and has, as a result, offended her. It’s not like he cares one way or the other, because he doesn’t even know her, but after a moment, afraid she’s hung up, he asks, “Robin?”

That’s when he hears the choking sound on the other line, and his pulse starts to pick up for what feels like the thousandth time today. He’s about to say her name again, but before he can, the choking sound resolves into something he can make out, and he can feel his brows furrow in confusion. Robin’s not dying, or mad at him. She’s laughing.

“Oh my god, Hargrove, I think I have abs like yours now. ‘ _You wanna do him_ ’ he says. Oh my god. I don’t think I give you enough credit sometimes—you clearly aren’t just a pretty face.” She pauses to breathe, then laughs again as she says, “Imagine _me_ doing _Harrington_.”

“Billy, hang UP!” his mom yells, and Billy won’t make her ask again.

“I have to go,” he says, and when Robin’s only response is to dissolve once more into peels of laughter, he hangs up. She doesn’t make any sense, he decides, but he doesn’t let go of the phone immediately, either. He steels himself.

With a breath, Billy fixes his most charming smile onto his face, then walks back into the kitchen to face his mom’s wrath. His brain is going a mile a minute. It’s not like he can explain away his injuries truthfully. What’s he going to say, “ _Yeah, Mom, I was just out punching trees in an existential sort of way. No, no don’t worry. I’m just not from this universe. My mom left me a long time ago,_ ”? Unlikely. First, that explanation is crazy, and second, he’s not bitter. So that’s out.

So, using his face to get out of trouble. Not the first time he’s done it. Won’t be the last, either.

He sits back down, not panicking, exactly. But not _not_ panicking, either. He’s all tension. In his head, he can see is a fist flying at his face. “Okay, Ma, listen,” he says, implementing his second best weapon: the blue-eyed plead, but his mom cuts him off with a shake of her head.

“Oh, you’re in trouble,” Max says, gleeful, and Billy would snap at her if he weren’t trying to avoid punishment. He’ll save it for tomorrow.

“No bullshit, bud.” His mom fixes him with a level stare. Billy feels his smile drop.

As close to the truth as possible, then. Maybe that will work.

“I… punched a tree.”

“You what?” Susan’s eyebrows are in her hairline. 

“I punched a tree.”

“Why?” His mom says, confusion painted clearly on her face.

“I was… frustrated.”

“About?”

Billy searches for a plausible explanation, licks his lips and looks at his plate. “I failed a test,” he settles on. It feels like, whatever kind of person he is in this universe, school is important to him.

His mom’s eyes soften, and Susan nods in understanding. He can’t believe it worked.

“Oh baby, why didn’t you come talk to me about it? When did you start expressing your feelings through violence?”

Billy chooses not to respond, stares fixedly at his plate instead. _When you left me_ , he doesn’t say. But it’s dawning on him, slowly, that something like this could have been his life. That he could have had a mom to talk to, if she’d stayed—but no. Billy mentally shakes himself, barely notices that his mom has started clearing dishes and that she’s saying something to him. This is just how Billy is. He’s violent, rough-edged. His dad may have helped him get here, but this must have lived in him, anyway. You can’t make something from nothing. Monsters don’t choose people who aren’t monsters. It takes one to know one, right?

In a blur, Billy helps his mom clean up, nods when she reminds him that he can talk to her while pushing down the cold anger coiling like a serpent in his chest, nods when Max says goodbye and Susan says she won’t need dinner as ride repayment the next day, because she has a date. Billy takes all of this in, sees how happy the women are. Takes himself upstairs to bed. Lays there and hates himself until he falls asleep.

Tuesday flies by in much the same way as Monday. He gets up, notices for the first time that his closet is filled with sweaters, and reluctantly puts one on. He takes Max to school, drives while she rambles about something funny Lucas said on the phone the night before. He goes to his advanced classes, Robin glued to his arm. He tutors a cheerleader named Courtney after school, who doesn’t try to flirt with him, but does complain about her boyfriend while Billy tries to explain algebra. He drives Max back to his house after school, Dustin and Lucas and Wheeler’s brother and Byers’s brother in tow. They set up camp in his living room, and Billy does homework in the kitchen while they wait for his mom to come up. They eat. Billy’s mom hugs him and he relaxes into it. He goes to bed, his mind spinning, his chest heavy, and his heart light all at the same time.

Wednesday, he has band again, and he doesn’t break his sticks out of frustration (“ _mallets_ ”, he learns), but it’s a near thing, and all the while Robin makes faces at him from across the room. She comes over after school, and they do homework together, Billy feeling out of place, but Robin more than making up for it with quirky exclamations and her tendency to ramble about some girl named Tammy. He’s never been friends with a girl before, and he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to act. He didn’t really see girls as _people_ before, he thinks, just as comfortable distractions. He knew what they wanted, and what they wanted was him. Well, they wanted his body, but Billy’s always thought that’s the best part of him, anyway. The only thing he can offer them that they _could_ want. But with Robin… she seems to like just hanging out with him, laughs at what he says and sometimes startles a laugh out of him, too. And he doesn’t know what to do with that.

On Thursday, Harrington arrives early to the tutoring room. He waltzes in, all of Monday’s shame forgotten, and makes a beeline for Wheeler, who’s busy setting up desks in pairs of two around the room. Billy’s sitting on the windowsill, the late summer sun warming his back and making him feel drowsy. The other tutors are milling about around the room, chatting as they organize stacks of papers. After a few minutes of watching Harrington bother Wheeler and generally get in the way of everything through half-closed eyes, Billy takes pity on her. He stretches and lets out a loud yawn, drawing the attention of almost everyone in the room (it still isn’t the type of attention he’s used to—it’s too _fond_ for that), including Harrington’s. With a wolfish grin, Billy launches himself from the sill and lopes over to him where he’s talking at Wheeler.

“Mind if I steal my tutee?” Billy asks her, eyes innocent, but grin still a little too smug.

Wheeler smiles back, mouths _thank you_. “I think I can spare him,” she says.

“I still have five minutes of free time!” Harrington cries, all overdramatic outrage. “Emphasis on _free_ _!_ As in, no work?” He looks at Wheeler like she’s going to back him up, but she just giggles and walks away to fix other desks. “You wound me, Nance!” he calls to her back, and Billy hears some of the other tutors laugh.

When Wheeler doesn’t turn around, Harrington fixes Billy with a scowl. “How could you betray my trust like this?” he asks, and Billy rolls his eyes. “Don’t you feel guilty, you hater of all that is good and pure in the world?”

“Trust me,” Billy says, “I love free time. But you?” He looks Harrington up and down, one eyebrow quirked—a feigned assessment. “You need all the help you can get.”

“Hey—!” Harrington protests, his amusement gone in an instant. The light in his eyes has collapsed into something hard and simmering, but Billy can see the insecurity hiding behind it in the way Harrington’s fingers immediately run through his hair, the way he bites his lip. Billy didn’t mean to upset him, feels a twinge in his chest. Still, he doesn’t know why the words set Harrington off. It’s not like his writing abilities are going to make or break him. Billy’s pretty sure that his dad is still a business owner, and that Harrington is pretty much guaranteed a job there after graduation. That’s what he’d heard from the girls in his universe, anyway. He doesn’t know why it’d be different here. Rather than dwell on it, though, Billy presses on. 

“Stop complaining and bring out your essay, pretty boy. I want to see how the edits are coming.” Harrington seems so stunned by the nickname that he forgets to be offended for a moment. Billy takes this opportunity to lead Harrington back towards the solo room, sees relief in the line of his shoulders as Harrington realizes that the other students won’t be able to see what he’s written, again.

Once inside, Billy takes Harrington’s essay and reads. It’s better this time, he realizes, and it makes something warm flood his veins. Billy’d done that. He’d helped someone _make_ something instead of destroying it. Still, the writing’s not great. He grabs a red pen and makes some markings.

He and Harrington pass a smooth half hour that way, sliding the paper back and forth, speaking in quiet voices next to each other as if the other students are pressed against the door, listening, instead of spread out in the next room. They’re so close that Billy bumps Harrington’s knee with his own every time he leans down to make a mark. Billy doesn’t know why he’s sitting next to Harrington, actually, when he could easily be across the desk from him. But that’s where the chairs had been when they’d come in on Monday, and who was Billy to move it?

Billy’s making a few final notes on Harrington’s essay when he sees him fiddling with something out of the corner of his eye.

“What’s that?” Billy asks, and Harrington damn near jumps out of his chair. His face flushes scarlet.

“Nothing!” he says, trying to push whatever it is into his pocket—but Billy’s always been faster than him, beat him again and again during sprints on the court. He plucks the thing out of Harrington’s hand before he can say another word.

It’s a piece of notebook paper, horribly crumbled. Billy smooths it out against the desk, and Harrington drops his face into his hands.

“I told you, it’s nothing,” he groans. And then, quieter, all the syllables rushed, “It’smypersonalessayforcollege.”

Billy levels him with an unimpressed stare. “You wanna repeat that, Harrington?”

Harrington glares at him, but there’s not heat behind it, so Billy doesn’t feel threatened, and no answering heat rises in him. Actually, he hasn’t exploded since Monday. There have been minor outbursts, but he hasn’t gone full Molotov, hasn’t even had to go looking for alternative outlets. It’s strange.

Billy looks at Harrington again, then pointedly down at the paper lying between his hands.

“You can tell me, or I can read about it for myself. Your choice.”

Harrington exhales, a long, put-upon sigh. “It’s my…” He runs a hand through his hair, his eyes glued to the desk in front of him. “It’s my personal essay. For college applications.”

“No shit?” Billy asks, unable to hide the surprise in his voice.

Harrington smiles a hard smile and snorts, self-deprecating. “Yeah, I know. I’m so dumb that I’ll never get in.” He reaches to take the paper back. “It’s stupid—”

Billy snatches it out of his reach. “It isn’t stupid. The only thing that’s stupid is that you’re counting yourself out before you’ve even started.” He thinks about all the times Harrington would miss a basket and crumble, the way he wouldn’t go after the rebound but would watch it bounce, instead. He flattens Harrington’s paper again with a little more force than strictly necessary, and starts to read. Harrington slumps in the seat next to him, so much so that his foot now rests against Billy’s. Normally, Billy would kick it off. He thinks that would be one blow too many for Harrington today, though, so for once, he tries to do the right thing.

A few minutes later, Billy looks at Harrington again. “It needs work,” he admits, and Harrington manages to slump down even more. “But, I think it’s a solid start. Good premise, too.”

Harrington looks up at him, hopeful but guarded. “You messing with me?”

Billy shakes his head.

“So you think I could, like, get in somewhere with this?”

“I think with me helping you? Yeah, yeah you could.”

What happens next is so abrupt that Billy couldn’t have prevented it if he’d tried. Harrington beams—something so _bright_ about it that Billy can’t look away—and then _launches_ himself into Billy’s space. The hug is more of a pat on the back than a hug, less of an embrace than even Max’s, which only last for a maximum of two seconds. Billy goes still.

Harrington pulls away, still grinning from ear to ear. “Thank you so much,” he says. “You don’t know how much this means to me.”

“Er, yeah, Harrington. You’re welcome.” Billy’s too stiff. He tries to force himself to relax, but his heart is pounding furiously now. He doesn’t do well with unexpected contact, he’s learning. He sucks in a breath. “I notice you wrote about being on the basketball team. But it’s late September, now. Hasn’t preseason started yet?”

Harrington deflates again. “Yeah, it has.”

“Then…?”

“I, uh— I’m benched right now. Because of this English class.”

Billy feels his eyebrows furrow. Harrington rushes on.

“So I’m failing right now, right? But we’ve only had one assignment. So I have an _F_ in the class right now, but only because of one assignment. So as soon as I get this next essay in, thanks to you, I’ll be good to go. Unfortunately, the next essay isn’t due until mid-October.”

“Do you miss it?” Billy asks, surprising himself.

Harrington looks thoughtful for a moment. “Yeah, I do. I like it a lot, you know? And the guys on the team, they’re like brothers to me.”

Billy’s chest twinges at that. He’d ruined that for Harrington in the other Hawkins; he’d come in, stolen Harrington’s crown, his position on the team, and his “friends”. This Harrington doesn’t even know that they’d ditch him in a heartbeat. It makes Billy a little sad for him, honestly. He didn’t know that Harrington had had that relationship with the team, that he’d thought he’d known them only to be blindsided by betrayal.

“I miss it, too,” Billy says, then immediately snaps his mouth shut.

Harrington looks at him with newfound interest. “You play, band geek?”

“I used to, pretty boy.”

“You any good?”

Billy smirks, “Damn good.”

Harrington looks at him, considering. “Why haven’t you gone out for the team?”

“I’ve had… things happen. Been too busy.”

“Would you want to play?” Harrington pushes, and Billy feels something in him charge.

“Yeah,” he says. In truth, though, Billy doesn’t know if he could play right now. The body he’s in is his, yes, but it’s not exactly the same. It’s softer and leaner, less muscular. Fewer battle scars. The body of a tutoring band geek, not a jock.

Harrington looks at him for so long, after that, that Billy almost squirms in his seat. He doesn’t, because he isn’t a bitch, but it’s a near thing. Harrington’s analyzing him like he’s a puzzle, staring so hard Billy’s half afraid he’s trying to pry open his mind.

“What?” he finally asks.

“We should practice together, you and me.”

“ _What_?”

“If we practice together, we’ll both be ready to go for tryouts at the end of October. It’ll be perfect. Plus,” he adds, “it’ll make me feel better if this is an even relationship. I don’t like coming here for help and offering nothing in return.”

That is such a good Samaritan thing to say that Billy almost says no out of a sense of duty and revulsion, but he hesitates. He misses basketball. He hates band. He’s stuck in a universe that isn’t his own, and he has no idea how long he’ll be here. Maybe he can make this thing a little more tolerable for himself, veer off the path of this persona a little without leaving it completely.

He meets Harrington’s excited eyes and holds out his hand, feels a wild smile split his face. Harrington places his head in Billy’s, and Billy ignores that it’s surprisingly rough as he shakes it once, firmly.

“You’ve got yourself a deal, Harrington.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title taken from "take on me" - a-ha
> 
> If you want more, let me know! Your enthusiasm directly correlates to my motivation. I love these boys and hope you do, too.


	3. how long can you stand the heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy and Steve play basketball. Other shenanigans ensue.
> 
> warnings for: mentions of homicide, so much basketball, billy's incredible capacity for angst, steve harrington being himself, teenagers being awkward, robin constantly showing up at the wrong (right) time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, everyone. This is really happening. I am giving you another chapter. I'm SO SORRY it's taken me so long, but I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> I am so, so grateful for the response this fic has gotten so far! Huge thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read this, or who has been kind enough to give it kudos or to comment on it. I am so touched.

Billy… doesn’t know what he’s doing here.

It’s eight a.m. On a _Saturday_ . He could be sleeping. Actually, he _should_ be sleeping. He lives in a house where that’s possible now, and he should be taking advantage of that, dammit.

But, no. For some reason—a reason that Billy’s having a hard time remembering right now, all bleary-eyed and bed-rumpled and grumpy—he’s at the high school gym at eight in the morning _on a Saturday_ , lacing up his high tops on the bleachers and waiting around for Harrington. Who is late.

Billy lays back against the bleachers and stares at the ceiling, thinking about what his life has become. He’d walked past Max’s open door this morning and had peered in, had smiled when he’d seen her peaceful face. His mom had absentmindedly kissed his cheek as she read the paper in the kitchen, and he hadn’t flinched, or frozen up. He’d accepted it sleepily and asked if he could borrow her car to tutor someone who needed extra help (because he still can’t admit out loud that he wants to go out for the basketball team. It feels too out of character for this Billy, and he’s afraid, too, that he won’t be any good in this body). She’d merely nodded and asked if he’d be home for dinner. No suspicions, no anger. As he walked out of the house, he’d felt… good. Surly and tired, yes. But good, too, in that deep down way. The only way Billy can think to describe it is that, well, he feels on the inside the way he used to when he was sitting on a surfboard, suspended on clear water.

It’s freaking him out, is what it’s doing. He can’t remember the last time he felt this way, and in the back of his mind, Billy knows that time is ticking. He’s going to fuck it all up somehow, and soon. Everything has been too peachy keen and rosy for it to continue on this way. Billy’s been around long enough to know that the rug will always be pulled out; he knows it’s best not to get comfortable, because then losing your balance hurts all the more. He’s a fool if he hasn’t learned that lesson yet.

It’s very confusing to feel peaceful and agitated all at once. 

Billy sits up and runs a hand through his hair, blowing out a long breath. He pushes the itching thoughts down—he’s never been good at looming deadlines, anyway. 

Billy’s just contemplating going back outside to light up and ease some of the residual tension when Harrington flies through the gym’s double-doors. 

His hair is in disarray and he’s panting lightly, Billy’s amused to see. When Harrington catches sight of Billy, he immediately rearranges his features into some mask of calm. He sweeps a hand through his flyaways and sidles over to the bleachers like he hadn’t just clearly sprinted in from the parking lot.

“Hey, man,” Harrington says, his grin going crooked and sheepish as he sits down next to Billy and pulls out his shoes.

Billy schools his face into a glare that he doesn’t feel. He can’t let Harrington think he tolerates tardiness, after all.

“You’re late,” he says, and he _almost_ nails the deadpan delivery, but then Harrington looks up at him with a guilty set to his shoulders and Billy feels his mouth turn up ever so slightly at the corner.

“Forgot I had to get gas,” Harrington says, standing up to strip off his sweatshirt. His voice is muffled as he asks, “Did you miss me or something?”

Billy doesn’t need to see the shit-eating grin to know it’s there, so rather than respond, he walks out onto the court. He feels a smile edge its way onto his face—it’s been half a year since he last set foot on the half-court line. He drags one foot across it, now, so that the floor squeaks beneath him, and has to fight back the fondness trying to steal through him.

Harrington bounds up next to him and looks out over the court like a king surveying his domain. He claps one hand on Billy’s shoulder, and Billy feels his body go rigid.

“I’ve been looking forward to schooling you all week,” he says, warmly. Then he takes his hand back, and walks over to the gym closet. Billy watches as he pulls out a key and opens it up without difficulty.

“You have a key?” Billy asks, his voice ricocheting off the walls, making it sound like there’s ten of him. He can’t really see Harrington’s face from his center court vantage point, but he could swear he sees the tips of Harrington’s ears turn pink as he digs around in the closet with his back to him, which. Is a very interesting response.

“Sort of,” Harrington yells back, finally turning around. He punctuates this by throwing a ball at Billy’s chest—Billy snags it easily out of the air.

Harrington takes a ball for himself and walks to one end of the court, so Billy figures that’s the end of the conversation. That’s okay by him; he’s not here to shoot the breeze, he’s here to teach this new body how to play basketball.

They shoot around for a while on opposite sides of the court, warming up. Billy finds he was right to worry about this Billy’s body in athletics—his arms feel sore after a few minutes of holding them aloft on his follow-through. The good news is that it appears, even though these muscles don’t technically have memory of this, Billy’s brain has given this body its muscle memory; his shots _swish_ through the net without touching the rim. Billy feels an almost feral grin take over his mouth as each shot goes cleanly through the net.

“Well, that was pretty,” Harrington’s voice says in Billy’s ear some time later, and Billy swings around, finds Harrington chest to chest with him.

“Are you ready to get smoked, tutor boy?”

“In your dreams, Harrington,” Billy replies, fixing a cocky lilt to his grin. It doesn’t matter that he’s out of shape. He’s going to wipe the court with Harrington’s skinny ass. Harrington is going to leave this gym a broken, defeated man—he’s going to kiss the ground Billy walks on. Billy’s sure of it.

They decide that using the full court is excessive between the two of them, so they settle on a game of half-court one-on-one. Harrington wins the rock, paper, scissors game to be on offense first, but that’s okay. Billy’s defensive game has always been top notch.

Billy passes Harrington the ball, and falls into his defensive stance, knees bent,one arm stretched out and one stretched up, trying to get in Harrington’s face. He blocks Harrington’s shot easily; he grips the ball and dribbles back over the three point line, ready to finally show Harrington a thing or two. But Harrington knocks the ball from under him as he goes in for a layup. Billy grits his teeth and takes off after him, determined not to let Harrington get the best of him again.

The next ten minutes pass in a whirlwind of missed shots and stolen balls, each swipe getting more and more aggressive. Billy knocks Harrington with his shoulder so hard that he goes flying back a step. The next time Harrington has the ball, he retaliates by elbowing Billy in the stomach, leaving him fight for breath. The heat of competition escalates until they’re barely playing basketball anymore; Billy’s lips are pulled into a permanent snarl, and Harrington’s eyebrows have been furrowed in a glare for the better part of their game. Billy’s sure he has bruises forming all over his body, but the anger he feels at Harrington for somehow continuously getting the better of him pushes him to fight back a little harder, a little meaner.

After fifteen minutes, Billy has the ball. Their scores are tied, two baskets to two baskets. He’s sweating so much that his hair is sticking unpleasantly to his neck, his forehead—but Billy isn’t thinking about that. He locks eyes on Harrington, who’s bouncing on his toes, his eyes locked on the basketball in Billy’s hands like a homing beacon. Billy fakes like he’s going to go right, and Harrington overreacts, hurtles too far over, leaving Billy a wide open lane to the left side. Billy watches out of the corner of his eye as Harrington course corrects and sprints at him, showing no sign of slowing… and as Billy extends his arm to drop the ball in the hoop, he doesn’t see so much as _feel_ Harrington barrel into his side.

Billy falls back on the ground with a distinct _thud_ , Harrington standing over him, panting angrily.

“What the fuck, Harrington?” Billy spits, hefting himself back up. “You that sore of a loser?”

Harrington says nothing, but takes the ball back over the three point line so that he can have his go at the hoop. Billy follows him, red hanging on the edges of his vision, his breath going shallow with fury. Who does Harrington think he is, trying to take Billy out just because he smoked him? It’s fucking pathetic, is what it is.

Harrington fakes left, but Billy sees it coming. He swipes the ball from Harrington, and scores on him again. Then he does it again. And again. Each time, Billy’s anger lessens, and Harrington’s grows, until Billy is laughing and Harrington looks like he’s going to punch Billy out. _Well_ , Billy thinks _, he can try_.

Billy sinks a shot from the three point line, and suddenly, Harrington seems to snap. The next time Billy has the ball, Harrington latches on, until they’re both yanking at it, at each other, trying to get possession. Billy loses his footing but keeps his hands on the ball, and he and Harrington roll over and over until finally Billy knocks the ball away, and pins Harrington’s wrists to the ground.

They’re both panting heavily, and Billy can see sweat trailing from Harrington’s temples, feels the trajectory mirrored on his own skin. He doesn’t let go of Harrington, but watches as he stops thrashing, slowly, until the blind anger recedes and there’s something intelligent about his gaze again. Harrington lets out a breath, and Billy feels him go slack in his arms.

They stay like that for a moment, trying to regain their breath, and finally, Harrington raises his head again. Billy watches as Harrington’s gaze flicks from his eyes to his mouth. He thinks he must loosen his grip on Harrington’s wrists, then, because in the next moment, Harrington has forcefully pushed Billy off of him, and his nose is wrinkled in a way that suggests he waltzed through the perfume aisle at the mall, except the samples were all Eu De Garbage. A tense silence settles over them, only for half a moment—but Billy notices it all the same.

“Dude,” Harrington says, finally making eye contact with Billy again, “Your breath reeks.”

“You can thank your mom for that,” Billy responds automatically, staggering to his feet to distract himself from the way his ears feel like they’re on fire. Harrington laughs, and kicks out at Billy playfully from the ground. He feels the tension that was building between them dissolve. He’s strangely grateful.

“Okay funny guy, I think I can actually blame cigarettes, but whatever you say.” He holds out his arms in the universal symbol for _help me up, dickweed_.

Billy rolls his eyes and sighs in a put-upon way, trying to push aside the strange embarrassment that swept over him at Harrington’s insult. He doesn’t know where it came from, and he doesn’t know what to do with it. Billy Hargrove doesn’t _do_ embarrassment. He just doesn’t. And yet…

Harrington pulls himself upward with Billy’s hands as his lever, and in the span of a heartbeat they are nose to nose again. Billy drops Harrington’s wrists and steps back, hating the hand that comes up to scratch at his neck, not knowing why he feels the need to fidget suddenly.

“I think we should call it a day,” Harrington says, stretching his arms up over his head; unbothered. Then, his eyes light up, and Billy watches in confusion as he scurries over to his gym bag and pulls out his watch.

“Oh _shit_ ,” Harrington says, and there’s something like dark glee dripping from his voice as he turns back to Billy.

Billy quirks an eyebrow at him. “I know it’s hard for you, but try to use your words, Harrington.”

Harrington’s unfazed by this. “Tutor time is business hours only, Billy boy. I’m a free agent. I can do as I please.” He’s pulling his sweatshirt on, now, so Billy walks back over to the bleachers, too. Harrington’s practically bouncing on his feet as Billy changes into a clean shirt and pulls his jean jacket on.

“Could you _be_ any slower?” Harrington whines, and Billy laughs as he purposefully moves even slower. One arm... through the jean jacket… then… the… other…

“Are you in some kind of hurry, Larry Bird?” Billy asks, wiping the sweat from his brow with his soiled shirt. 

“ _Yes_ ,” Harrington nods emphatically. “Actually, _we’re_ in a hurry.” Billy meets this pronouncement by slowly bending down to retie his shoelaces, and apparently that’s enough for Harrington, because he grabs Billy by the wrist and pulls him towards the gym doors—Billy barely has time to grab his bag.

“What about the balls?” Billy asks as an afterthought, once Harrington has successfully marched them into the parking lot.

“Fuck the balls!” Harrington yells, and Billy bites down on his smirk, “We are on a _mission_ , Billy.”

“Are we?”

“It’s 9:30 in the morning,” Harrington says, gesturing wildly to his watch like that explains everything. “On a _Saturday_.”

“Did I knock you down too hard, Harrington? You have brain damage now or something?”

Harrington sighs loudly, like Billy is perhaps a very annoying child who won’t go down for a nap. “Hargrove, you’ve been in Hawkins for a while now. You should know what I mean, man.” 

Harrington gives him a moment, presumably to put together the clear points he seems to believe he has given Billy, but Billy is a little too surprised by the return to his surname to respond. His mind has erupted into question marks, which makes him bristle. He shouldn’t be confused by that—it shouldn’t even matter. It doesn’t matter.

“I don’t fucking know what you mean, _man_ ,” Billy hears himself snarl. He turns on Harrington in a snap, claustrophobic heat rising to trap him inside like Dr. Jekyll. 

Harrington’s eyebrows have risen to his swooping hairline. “Uh..” he stammers, and Billy feels sick pleasure at the shock on his face, the way he’s stepped back from Billy like he’s been burned. Billy soaks in the feeling of power for a slow-motion moment, looking at Harrington. But then looking at Harrington’s face, the way his brown eyes have gone so wide that he can see the whites all around them… drains the high from him. The sick pleasure becomes a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He closes his eyes against the images flaring up, the darkness, the icy emptiness in his body—he’s done it again, gone to that horrible place, the place his anger took him.

“I was just messing with you,” Harrington says carefully, stepping back towards him.

“I know,” Billy says, tightly. 

Billy hears the pavement crunch as Harrington takes another step towards him. He grudgingly opens his eyes.

Harrington runs a hand through his hair, tousling it to a degree that’s somehow more absurd. “Well,” he says, letting his arm flop back to his side.

Billy says nothing, but reaches into his jean jacket for his cigarettes. He needs _something_ to break this tension, and he feels like punching Harrington, while making him feel better for a moment, would come out of left field. He’d just learned a similar lesson. And also, he doubts it’s something _this_ Billy would do. So. Smoking.

Before he can light up, though, Harrington raises his arm like he’s going to knock the cigarette out from between Billy’s lips. He seems to think better of it at the last second, because he comes to a halt mid-sweep. Billy shoots him a blank gaze as his hand hovers in the air between them.

“You can’t stave off that appetite right now!” Harrington says, like the last few minutes never happened. He’s gone back to being friendly, which. Billy’s not sure how to read that. Is Harrington so self-destructive that he doesn’t care that he’s talking to an asshole, or does he genuinely think that they’re… that they’re… 

Billy cuts his train of thought short. “Are you ever going to tell me why?”

“Okay, fine. Because you asked so _nicely_ ,” Harrington emphasizes this with an eye roll, as if he’s afraid Billy will miss the sarcasm, “On Saturday mornings, Jim’s does a breakfast special. But it’s only until like, 10:00. So I’m never awake in time to get the breakfast special—which is different every week, might I add—and this weekend I’m _awake in time_.” He looks at Billy expectantly.

“So, you want to go get breakfast at Jim’s?”

Harrington nods aggressively. “I’m starving and it’s the _breakfast special_ , Billy. It’s special by name.”

“I got that much,” Billy says, and he can’t help the way one side of his mouth curls up.

“Okay so, now that we’re on the same page. Do you wanna take my car or yours?”

“You want me to come with you?” Billy asks, startled. He tries to hide his surprise behind a sneer, but he doesn’t think it works. When did he become so soft?

Harrington looks at him like he has two heads. “Well, yeah. We just worked out together. It’s not like I’m gonna go eat breakfast alone. We’re like, teammates now.” He turns away and opens the door to his car, then looks back at Billy, one eyebrow raised. “You coming or what?”

Billy heaves a loud sigh as he rounds to the passenger side so that Harrington knows he’s only going out of obligation, but he can’t stop the warm feeling that’s pooling behind his ribcage. It’s stupid, he knows. And he probably shouldn’t be agreeing to this, but. Well, he can’t remember the last time someone wanted to go somewhere with him because they wanted his _company_ , and not anything else. It’s not like Billy can make Harrington popular, but for some reason, Harrington still wants to go somewhere with him.

Billy pushes this down—he’s not a _girl_ —and buckles into Harrington’s car. Harrington rolls his windows down despite the brisk autumn air, then cranks the tunes—something from Top 40 radio that Billy doesn’t know and doesn’t care to know—and pulls out of the high school parking lot. They sit there comfortably, not saying anything, just basking in the calm of the morning. Harrington taps his fingers along to whatever song is playing, and Billy can’t help but notice that he’s also mumbling the words under his breath—he doesn’t seem to notice he’s doing it.

Billy doesn’t know why that makes him smile, but it does.

They pull into Jim’s a few minutes later. It’s bustling, the little diner packed with people, but not completely full. Billy and Harrington manage to snag one of the last open tables when they walk into the warm air.

“My mouth is already watering,” Harrington moans as he slides into the booth across from Billy. Billy has to agree—the air smells like cinnamon and butter, and his stomach rumbles approvingly. Maybe Harrington sucks at a lot of things, and maybe he drives Billy up the wall, but his taste in food might yet prove worthy.

Their waitress swings by almost before Billy’s taken his jacket off, and Steve orders both of them an orange juice before Billy can say anything.

“It’s almost cold season!” Harrington says, defensively, when Billy opens his mouth to object. “We need the vitamin C!”

“Okay, Mom,” Billy replies. He takes great pleasure in the way Harrington goes red around the ears and messes with his hair at his words.

“There’s nothing wrong with me for caring about my body, Billy.”

“Nothing at all. It evens out all of the care you put into that hair.”

“You’re an incredibly frustrating person to talk to, do you know that?” Harrington grouses, pulling his menu up to hide his face. Billy can feel the grin he’s sporting. He doesn’t try to quell it.

The waitress comes back, then, and places their juices in front of them.

“You boys ready to order?” she says, sweetly.

Billy is not, actually, because he’s been too busy making fun of Harrington. He hasn’t even opened his menu.

“Actually—” he says, giving the young woman his patented flirty grin, but Harrington, once again, cuts over him.

“Yeah, Alice, we’ll both have the special,” he says, reading her name tag and shooting her a kind smile.

“Coming right up,” Alice says, ignoring both of them.

“What the fuck, dude?” Billy says, as soon as Alice is out of earshot.

“What?” Harrington says. His eyebrows are squished together like he’s really confused. Billy wants to smack him.

“You just ordered for me again.”

“You didn’t even know about Jim’s this morning! And you never even opened your menu. Plus, I know what’s good here, and it is _definitely_ the special. It’s always waffles, but the topping change every weekend.”

“You’re not my wife, Harrington,” Billy grumbles, but he’s not as angry about it as he feels like he normally would be. He is hungry, he does like waffles, and this way they’ll eat quicker…

Billy goes to take a sip of his juice (he firmly ignores Harrington’s satisfied smirk) and then nearly chokes on it as he catches a glimpse of the man in the kitchen through the order window. He’s a big man, burly, with a thick mustache and thinning brown hair. Billy almost wouldn’t believe his eyes, except he _knows_ he’s seen that exact same Hawaiian shirt in his Hawkins…

“‘Jim’s’ like Jim _Hopper’s_?” he coughs, as he tries to fight against the juice flowing down his windpipe.

Harrington gets halfway to his feet like he’s going to thump Bill on the back, but Billy quickly waves him off, his eyes streaming as he continues to cough.

“Uh, yeah…?” Harrington says, looking like he’s still debating whether or not to hop the table and heimlich the shit out of Billy.

“I thought he was a cop?” Billy says, before he can stop himself. 

“I mean, he used to be the chief of police,”—Billy lets out a sigh that’s half relief at not seeming crazy and half at being able to breath again—“But he retired after the whole double homicide thing.”

“Double homicide?” Billy asks, his skin prickling as memories try to push to the surface (dark and bloody and he _had no control_ and he was dying and so many other people were dying and…)

“Oh, man! That’s right, you guys weren’t here yet,” Harrington says. “Yeah, oh wow—there was this absolutely brutal double homicide about… oh, six years ago now? This young couple was found ripped apart in their home, blood everywhere.”

The waitress comes back with their food, almost shockingly fast, and Harrington nods his thanks as she sets the plates down, laden with waffles and syrup and all kinds of fresh-looking fruit. Billy’s almost too numb at the story to notice.

“The thing was, they had a daughter, too, but she managed to hide. No one really knows how she survived, or why her parents were targeted,” Harrington pauses, like he’s gaging Billy’s reaction. Billy’s stomach turns as he looks at the mountain of waffles on his plate, but he doesn’t stop Harrington, so Harrington continues. “But Hopper was the one who got the call. It was two days after the murders, mind you, so this poor little girl was alone in the house with this horror scene for two days before anyone noticed something was off and called the police.”

“That’s so horrible,” Billy whispers. He can’t help but think of that girl with the superpowers, and how she’d had to fight through so much of Billy’s horror before he stopped himself…

“It was terrible,” Harrington agrees, solemn. “They couldn’t find the killer, and eventually, Hopper had to retire for his own good. He actually adopted the little girl, though, so there is a happy ending for her. Hopper treats her like a queen. The reason he opened this diner was actually because she loved his cooking so much that he figured he’d give food service a whirl.” Harrington cuts into his food, and holds the bite aloft, “Waffles are her favorite food.”

“Oh,” Billy says, dumbly. He digs into his food just to have something to focus on besides the swirling in his mind, and then, “Oh, _wow_ ,” he says, in a completely different voice.

Harrington grins. “Pretty good, right?”

Billy nods, then looks at his waffles again, trying to decide if eating more will help the nausea or bring it to the breaking point. Harrington notices his hesitation.

“I’m sorry, that was pretty heavy. I always forget how ugly it was until I talk about it again.”

“It’s okay,” Billy says, after another tentative bite that bursts with sweet flavor. “It’s good to know. I didn’t realize this—I mean, that Hawkins was dangerous.”

“It’s not, really. I barely remember it, and nothing’s really happened since.”

Billy thinks about all the shit he’s seen go down in his Hawkins, and can’t really believe Harrington. There’s no way the two are _that_ different. Something has to be happening here—but Billy shakes it off. It’s not his job to uncover horrible truths. He’s already uncovered enough of them about himself.

He and Harrington eat in silence for a while, nothing but the scraping of forks on plates (and Harrington’s occasional sounds of delight as he bites into his waffles like he’s riding a high), but the silence isn’t uncomfortable, which. Billy’s not sure what to make of that. He and Harrington couldn’t go five minutes without trying to kill each other, but now…

Eventually Harrington gets up and stretches, his hands resting, satisfied, on his stomach.

“Be right back,” he says, throwing a wink at Billy for no reason that he can make out. God, he is infuriating. Billy should have crushed him harder during one-on-one.

Billy’s gaze wanders without Harrington to keep it, and he finds himself looking out the window next to their booth. As he looks, he sees a familiar figure walk by. They make eye contact through the glass, and the figure keeps walking… until she stops, turns around, and walks right back to the window, close enough for her breath to fog the glass. Billy watches as her eyes trace to Harrington’s retreating back, then to Billy, and then go _huge_. Billy has no idea why seeing him with Harrington, who she knows very well he is tutoring, is causing this reaction.

 _Oh my god_ , Robin mouths at him through the glass.

Billy quirks a brow at her, but apparently this is the wrong move, because Robin’s mouthing becomes much more intense very quickly.

 _OH MY GOD_ , she mouths again, and Billy can’t hear her, but he knows that if he could, she’d be shouting. She points at the place Harrington disappeared, then back to Billy, as if confirming she’s not misreading the situation and it is a coincidence that Billy and Harrington happen to be in the same establishment at ten in the morning on a Saturday.

Billy nods slowly, like he would if he were trying to instill a sense of comfort in a stray animal. Robin’s eyebrows have shot up into her hairline, and Billy can see her tried and true mantra falling from her lips repeatedly, like a prayer: _ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod_.

Billy shoots her an unimpressed look, and then mouths back to her, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Robin returns his look with one of her own that Billy can only describe as maniacal glee, and then she dashes out of Billy’s view. Before he can do anything else, Robin is sliding into the booth next to him, grinning like she’s won the lottery. At the same moment, the waitress returns with one check and places it in front of Billy.

“She thinks you’re the top,” Robin says, and then, before Billy can unpack any of that: “We don’t have much time, so tell me everything, and make it quick.”

“What—?” Billy starts, but Robin cuts over him. He’s getting kind of sick of these Hawkins people cutting him off before he’s done talking; it never would have happened in his—everyone was too afraid of him. Or wanted him too much to do anything but giggle at him.

“Oh, don’t play dumb with me. You’re here with _Steve Harrington_ , dingus.”

“Nice catch, brainiac.” Billy has no idea why she keeps getting stuck on this Harrington thing if she doesn’t want to get in his pants. Maybe she’d lied before? Except, she’d laughed, and pretty hard, at that… Billy cannot get a read on Robin, no matter how hard he tries. She’s different than any other girl he’s ever met, and she doesn’t seem to give a shit about high school boy drama.

Billy reflects on this for a moment. Maybe she dates college guys?

“Earth to loser,” Robin says, nudging him in the ribs, hard enough for it to hurt.

“Ouch,” Billy says, crossly. Robin ignores him.

“How did you swing this?” she demands.

“Harrington offered up basketball training in exchange for tutoring,” Billy says, then fails to fight the self-satisfied grin that breaks over his face, “But I should be training him after that sorry excuse for basketball playing he showed today.”

“Wait, hold on. Let me get this straight,” Robin’s lip twitches up on the last word, “You’re playing basketball now? When did you learn how? When did you start caring about sports?” She pauses. “Actually, don’t bother to answer the last question. I just remembered that time I watched the girl’s soccer team. I know all about the perks of watching sports… But playing them?”

“I figured I’d give it a shot,” Billy says, very purposefully not looking Robin in the eye. He knows this is out of character for _this_ Billy, and while he’s fairly certain no one in their right mind would make the connection that he’s not the same Billy they know, he’s not going to let Robin read anymore from him than she’s already doing. “Senior year and all,” he adds, hoping maybe this will excuse his behavior.

Robin looks at him skeptically, but then smiles. “I guess I have to respect you a little, Hargrove. You’re going after it. You’re making things happen.” She casts a glance towards the bathroom, where Harrington is exiting. Then her face softens into an expression Billy doesn’t think he’s seen her wear before. It looks almost like… concern?

“Just… be careful, okay? I don’t want you to get in over your head.”

“I’m fine, Robin,” he says, and she continues looking at him like that, and then ruffles his hair and leaves just as Harrington returns to the table. 

“Who was that?” Harrington asks, sliding back into the booth and gulping the last of his juice.

“My friend,” Billy says as he tries in vain to flatten his hair back down, and the word tastes foreign on his tongue. He’s… not sure he’s ever said it before.

“Friend, huh?” Harrington asks, one eyebrow quirked.

“Oh yeah. Just a friend.”

“Is she single?”

Billy picks the last strawberry from his plate and flicks it at him. “Just for that, you’re paying.”

They end up splitting the check, because Billy doesn’t like to owe anyone anything, and he doesn’t like being owed, either. Harrington had fought it at first—“I’m the one who picked the restaurant, it’s only fair!”—but Billy persevered, and now they’re back in Harrington’s car, the windows down, Top 40 radio blasting.

“Hey, I meant to ask,” Billy says, and Harrington turns the radio down.

“What’s up?”

“How did you get into the gym closet to get the basketballs? I didn’t think they let students have keys.”

Harrington rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “They don’t.”

Billy’s interested, now. “Then how…?”

Harrington sighs. “So, before I was suspended from the team because of that damn essay, I was supposed to be the captain. The captain has all these privileges and responsibilities, and one of them is to get the court ready for practice, since the coach doesn’t come until a few minutes before practice starts. For preseason, Coach gave me the key. When I got suspended, I made a copy so I could still practice at the high school.” His gaze skitters to Billy’s and away, and Billy can’t help but notice the way his shoulders have suddenly tensed up.

After a beat, Billy says, “That’s pretty badass, Harrington.” Harrington doesn’t look at him, but Billy can see the edge of his mouth twitching up into a smile, can see his shoulders unlock.

“You know me,” Harrington says, as they pull back into the high school parking lot. “Rebel to my core.”

“That’s a word for it.”

They come to a stop, and Billy opens the door, then pauses as he sees the clock in the car; it reads 10:47 am. He and Harrington had just spent the better part of the morning together, and it hadn’t… it hadn’t sucked.

He’s surprised into action when Harrington gets out of the car first. Billy follows after, walking to his (mom’s) car, the only other vehicle in the lot.

“You trying to walk me home?” he asks, and Harrington laughs, walking right past him and toward the gym.

“Nah, I gotta clean the gym up. Can’t let the team know I still have access to their shit.”

Billy runs a hand through his hair, the other over the driver’s side handle. “You need any help?” he finds himself asking, and he’s surprised. He never would have said that, two weeks ago. Putting yourself out there only ever ends in pain, and yet…

“I’ve got it, Billy. Go on home.”

And, well. Billy’s not gonna argue with that. He’s no goody-two-shoes; he isn’t going to force help on someone. He gets in the car, starts it up. Rolls down the window when he sees Harrington’s mouth moving.

“What?” he calls.

“Today was fun,” Harrington says, “I’m glad we’re doing this.”

 _Yeah_ , Billy thinks, as he rolls his eyes and drives away, Harrington’s laughter lost in the wind, _I’m glad, too_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title taken from "Another One Bites the Dust" - Queen
> 
> If you want more, let me know! Your enthusiasm directly correlates to my motivation.


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